The Garden
by ciararose
Summary: They say the world used to be a paradise, a Garden where beauty and truth bloomed every season. Now the once-beautiful Garden of Eden is a rotten and poisonous place, and the sweet and innocent are lost like blossoms in the wind.
1. SCENE ONE

SCENE ONE

A missing girl, a secret boyfriend, and Diagon Alley.

**_EXCERPT FROM THE TRANSCRIPTS OF DRACO A. MALFOY, APRIL 13th, 2003_**

_They were not the kind of people I usually see. That should have been my first clue that this was far beyond an ordinary case. They were older, and dressed too well for the neighborhood, coming down the street looking nervous and glancing over their shoulders. A couple, maybe in their forties, but well taken care of: the woman with her hair done nicely, and the man wearing an expensive hat over his bald spot. I knew they had to be coming for me from the second I spotted them across the street- I just didn't know why._

_It only took a minute for the story to come tumbling out. Usually, people hesitate. They don't want to elaborate, they don't want to think about their own guilt and how it lead them to be sitting in the chair across from me, a cigarette-scarred desk between us that they rest their hands on like it will anchor them in the churning sea of their own misdeeds. But these two were chattering nervously before I even sat down, the man twisting his handkerchief in his hands and the woman taking great gulps of air in between trembling sobs. She wasn't crying- maybe she had no tears left- just shaking in a rhythmic, heaving way._

_"Our daughter, Rose," the woman said, and the man fumbled in his wallet for a photograph. His hand was shaking when he slid it across the table and I let it sit, for the time being, without looking at it. I didn't need to, I could see it already. She'd be pretty like her mother looked like she was when her eyes weren't red and swollen. She'd be young. She'd be smiling because she had parents who loved her and crept down dark alleys, desperate to help her but unsure where to turn._

_"She's just out of Hogwarts," the man explained, and his wife nodded tremulously. "Excellent marks, never a spot of trouble. But as soon as she's home she starts acting strangely; staying out too late, with people we'd never seen before, keeping secrets. We thought- we thought it was normal. Youth, you know," he said, and he tried for a shaky smile. I thought about returning it- people always say my bedside manner leaves something to be desired- but I never can bring myself to be too reassuring. It gives people a lot of hope, relaxes them. Sometimes they shouldn't be too hopeful, or relaxed._

_"Then, just a few weeks ago, she started staying out for days at a time. She'd come home one morning without a word to say to either of us and looking pale as anything. We tried to talk to her about it, she didn't want to hear a word," the man continued, looking anguished. "And then... and then... three weeks ago, she leaves, and doesn't come back. We've been round to all of her friends, everywhere they say she hangs about, but no one's seen or heard from her."_

_Not much to go on. Not a lot of ways for this to end. But they wanted to pay up front. 'Anything you can find,' they said. It was too good of an offer; they were desperate. I asked about the usual suspects, but they were clueless. They said she didn't have a boyfriend. I looked at the picture. She was pretty, happy, warm. There was no way this girl was wandering around town without catching anyone's eye, but the parents seemed sincere. So they didn't know. Well, a young girl confides in her friends. I'd have to start there._

_When they left, I advised them to stay in the street, where the lamp light was strongest. You never know what's lurking in the darkness these days._

* * *

It's raining again. The streets of London are shallow pools and in the night the pavement is dark as spilled blood. But it doesn't seem to bother him as he heads down the street, head tilted so his hat can keep the rain out of his eyes, his hands deep in the pockets of his raincoat. Draco knew, from the parents description, that Rose Zeller liked to get a taste of the nightlife. So she had friends roaming the slick streets of London tonight, somewhere, and he was on his way to find them.

He turns down the back alley and taps the bricks with his wand, waiting as the archway reveals the entrance to Diagon Alley. It's like stepping into daylight, with neon colored lights flashing everywhere he looks, shining from windows and doorways and reflecting off of the rain drops as they fall in an endless technicolor firework. If she was just out of school and looking for a party, this was where she'd have gone: the Alleys. It had still been a shopping district when he had left school, but he could imagine the appeal to a barely-of-age witch: one endless party, dance clubs that didn't close until the sun had risen, the pulse of youth and rebellion permeating every building. Once the shops had closed, after Kingsley's murder and the Splintering had begun, it had been a wasteland: streets full of empty, unwanted buildings occupied only by mice and the desperate. Easy enough to tear down a few old shops, expand underground, and let the dusk-to-dawn festivity begin.

The first few places are useless. The barkeepers have never seen her, the doormen have never seen her, or she looks just like every other girl who comes in and out and they can't be sure. On his third try he strikes gold: a barmaid who says she's been in and out, but not in the past few weeks. The barmaid is leaning on the counter, looking up at him through long eyelashes, her voice melodic.

"Any friends inside?" he asks her, and she tilts her head as she looks, her long blonde hair swaying in straight tendrils across her neck. She points to a distant table, as she pulls her hand back, her fingers brush his arm. He thanks her and turns his back and can't see, but can imagine, her tiny frown at his dismissal.

He makes his way to the back table and finds a rowdy group: six or so eighteen-to-nineteens, talking over each other and over the pounding music. Draco can be patient enough; he sits at a nearby empty table and waits for the group to thin. When it does, he's left with two girls, their eyes wide and bright with excitement, speaking low enough that he can't hear a word in the bass-heavy atmosphere. He stands up and slides into the seat next to them. He's good with girls, especially girls who like a little risk. They like the cold way he looks at them, they think they can warm his heart. They like that he's a little dangerous, a little too controlled. It takes a while for them to become afraid of the man behind the smooth exterior. This is lucky for him. He enjoys the company and the soft, warm touch of women but he has no taste for the love that they tearfully demand, eventually, before storming away. He enjoys challenge. Most women are easy and the ones who are not are the ones he remembers. These two girls will fold like petals in the wind.

"Ladies," he gives them a nod and they look at him in surprise. He's older, but not by much, and he doesn't look like a freak. He can see the wary interest growing in their faces, but they're cautious. You can't trust strangers in the Alleys. They've heard stories of what can happen to pretty girls like them when they get too friendly with someone a little too dangerous and with just enough power not to fear getting caught.

"What's your name?" one of them, the bolder one, asks him. Her friend is pretty in a bland, nondescript way, but this one's eyes are dark and narrow, with a hint of exoticism. She is more confident, more attracted by the idea of a dark, smoldering stranger.

"Ben," Draco replies, and within minutes they are laughing, amused by his smooth talk and cool manner. The nervous one is Yvonne, the other Nancy, and he takes advantage of their warmth.

"I'm looking for a girl. I'm told you might have been familiar," he says loudly over the music. "Rose Zeller?"

He doesn't bother with an elaborate pretense. These ones are working hard at playing dangerous games, but they're innocent, fresh and unsuspecting. They liked to toy with the idea of risk: darkness, strangers, a close and sweaty dance floor and the reputation of the Alleys. But they wouldn't go any farther. They looked at one another and exchanged rolled eyes when they heard the name.

"She doesn't come here anymore. She thinks she's too good," the bold one says, and the other gives an agreeing laugh.

"What do you mean?"

"She and her stupid boyfriend stopped coming. They were always saying they had 'important' things to do," the other, the nervous one, chimes in, eager to be a part of the conversation. "And then they stopped showing up. You know, it's a good thing iwe/i don't have prat boyfriends." Her friend gives her an embarrassed prod and they both giggle.

"Where did they take their business?" he asks, careful not to push too hard, to arouse their suspicions. But they only shrug.

"I saw them across the street, at Potions," the bold one says. "Kevin was talking to some guys, but Rose looked like she wasn't excited."

"Kevin the boyfriend?" Draco confirms, making a mental note of it.

"Kevin Whitby," they echo simultaneously, then turn to one another and giggle. Draco stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"Forgot to feed the cat," he shoots back over his shoulder.

He makes his way back to the entrance from which he came. On the way, he passes the barmaid, and she looks up as he walks by. She follows him with her eyes. He has time to spare and she's got plenty to offer in the way of entertainment. He could turn back to her, sit down at the bar, order a drink and give her what she wants- a few hours of pleasant, suggestive conversation. Some jokes to laugh at. An invitation and a cold, brisk tone in the morning so that she can leave and tell herself she was blameless, that he was an arse, and she guiltless for her indiscretion. But there's no telling what her agenda might be, especially not in the Alleys. Any other night he might be interested but tonight he's got another woman on his mind, and this one's being well paid to track down.

* * *

He heads out and searches for the place the girl mentioned, 'Potions'. It isn't quite across the street, it is further down the alley, and Draco wonders if that is quite as ominous as it seems to him. The further down the alley, the closer to the other, unmentionable side of Alley Town: Knockturn Alley. It's not the kind of place a sweet, excited teenage girl would wander into accidentally. Knockturn Alley is the very heart of Dynasty territory, the center of the web from which their silken lines spin. It's the kind of place only players who know the game very well ever venture.

He passes groups of people, some standing in circles huddle beneath awnings against the downpour, others alone, lighting a lone cigarette and struggling to keep it burning. Ahead of him, Draco sees a solitary figure leaning against a wall. He doesn't appear to be doing much of anything; he simply stares out into the rain, his eyes wide and blank. Draco has heard rumors of some new craze sweeping through, some illicit substance that is gaining popularity with University students. The man certainly looks as though he's seeing something otherwordly. But Draco has no interest in the activities of drug-addled students, only in the activities of two, and that trail leads him to the doorstep of Potions, a busy-looking pub that seems to be designed around the familiar Potions classroom at Hogwarts.

It's clever designing, but Draco isn't swept up by an emotional barrage of schoolboy memories. It's only been five years, of course. Perhaps he's too young yet to know the pangs of nostalgia. He takes a seat at the bar and keeps his eyes open. What he learns after a few minutes of observation is interesting: most of the crowd is oblivious, telling loud filthy jokes and running from table to table in a dizzying rotation. A few are dancing on the platform representing the teacher's desk, their heads bobbing to repetitive music. But a few fairly quiet patrons occasionally slip up the stairs in the back corner, disappearing and not returning.

He turns to two young men sitting in stools adjacent to him, who are boasting loudly about the number of Firewhiskeys they've had and arguing one another's claims. Merlin, it's loud in here, and boiling. Everywhere he turns there's another group of men and women, smashed, falling out of their stools, the witches wearing robes that exposed more skin than they covered. These are not the people he knew in school, the arrogant and competitive young men drinking from forbidden flasks in the common room and plotting future careers, the haughty and clever socialites taking pleasure in their own superiority, both sides playing a graceful, well-scripted dance between rebellion and a proper public face. This is loud, dirty, shameless. He's used to upper crust, and he's sinking into the messy center of the Alleys' apple pie. He's not in his element here, but he's confident in his ability to playact. If he wasn't a good liar he'd be dead.

"What's upstairs?" he asks of the man next to him, skipping an introduction.

"Private party," the man replies, barely glancing over his shoulder.

He moves around a bit, discreetly dropping names, looking for anyone who might have had an ear to Kevin's business there. But it's a tough crowd tonight, no one talks, no one has a clue bigger than their own sense of self-preservation. These are the kinds of people who can go deaf faster than a curse can cross a room when it's convenient for them. There's nothing for it. He'll have to try a direct approach.

He heads for the stairs with supreme confidence. That and a hard attitude have gotten him into tight places before. But he's only halfway up the steps when a women in a cocktail apron descends, looking at him with a quick eye. Damn.

"I'm sorry sir, this party is private," she tells him, blocking his way.

"Who's birthday is it?" he asks her casually, leaning against the banister so she has nowhere to slip by.

"Somebody with a real nice family," she tells him, raising an eyebrow. He knows what that means- whatever game is going on upstairs has more players than are present tonight.

"Didn't I tell you? I'm the birthday boy's uncle," he says to her, and carefully steps around where she's standing still, looking at him warily. "Don't worry, I prefer to be anonymous," he assures her, and slips a galleon into her apron pocket as he ascends. He always tips his waitress.

She makes no move to stop him this time. Perhaps she's simply not used to such pushy customers. Most people make a real effort to stay out of the way of private business in the Alleys. Draco's finding himself down here more and more. The waitress needn't be concerned: it's in his best interest to keep his head down. Nobody really likes a snoop. When he reaches the top of the stairs and follows the sound of voices down a corridor to a room on the left, he stays quiet and he stays hidden, around the corner, listening to the raucous laughter within. They're playing cards; he can hear the slap of the stiff material on a table.

"I've got ashes," someone says, with a groan. His fellows rib him for a moment before a few more fold, and the game is over. Draco hears the clink of glasses.

"How much money do you think you've lost so far, Jimmy?" asks a gruff voice.

"It's the drink, fellas. I can't trust myself when I've knocked a few back," the other man replies, and his friends laugh at the joke.

"Well that's pathetic, seeing as we don't trust you when you're sober," someone shoots back, and the laughter resumes.

"How's business?" Jimmy asks, presumably to someone specific.

"Got blocks to push tomorrow," comes the answer. "Harlow's got me making house calls three times a week. But who's complaining? 'Low says push, I push."

"Unless you want to eat sparks," comments another, and a nervous chuckle ripples around the room. Draco doesn't follow half of what they're talking about but he knows the name; Leon Harlow, a big shot on the Knockturn side, also called Leon Low by those who know him. So Kevin Whitby was dipping his toes in the Dynasty water. There's no way these are major players, not if they're still here and not on the other side of the Alleys. They're feet, wand men, little fish compared to the bosses. And Kevin had been in with them. So how does Rose fit in?

He's heard enough to move forward and there's no way he'll get any of them to talk, these are close-mouthed men for the sake of their own skins. He backs down, descends the stairs into the crowded pub below, and goes in search of the chatty waitress. She leaning on the bar, making a meal out of writing out a ticket. He slips between a few other patrons to her side.

"Bored by the party?" she asks him, avoiding his eyes.

"I don't like cake," he replies. He takes the photo of Rose from his pocket, slides it across the bar to her side. She doesn't pick it up but he knows she's looking. "This girl ever visit the scene upstairs?"

"Maybe I've never seen her," the waitress dodges shrewdly, turning to him and abandoning her half-written ticket.

"Maybe you haven't," he shrugs. "Her brother will be sorry she missed his birthday party. He might be upset. I'd send her an owl if I knew where to find her."

She bites her lip and looks down at the photo again. She wants to help, he knows, and so he waits in silence. Good people always talk in the end, when their consciences work them over. This girl is good. She's in the wrong place with the wrong crowd. She's tipping like a teapot in the hand of god and he waits nearby, ready to pour himself a cup.

"She came in with a touchy kind of guy. But she works the crowd downstairs, never up. She made a lot of friends. Someone said she was looking for a leg up."

"On what ladder?"

"She liked to play girlfriend," the waitress shrugs neatly. "That's all I know."

It's been a productive night and he's picked up the scent. He leaves her by the bar and heads out, back into the night where the rain has slowed and drips from roofs and gutters in a drumming rhythm that keeps time with his footsteps and the flow of his mind working the puzzle. So Rose had followed her boyfriend when he wanted to get a piece of the action, but she was headed in a different direction, trying to make connections, feeling her way up. And she found out she couldn't get what she wanted with the Potions crowd. So what was she looking for? 'She liked to play girlfriend', the waitress said. What did that mean?

He's nearly out of the Diagon Alley when it clicks into place. Of course. A girl looking to make a name for herself without getting into the boy's club, she had only one way to go, and this side of the Alleys never would have gotten her there. She must have realized it, gotten hungry. Or maybe Kevin wanted a bigger piece of the pie than the scraps he was sharing with the boys upstairs. They got greedy and they got in deeper.

So he has a destination. It's been a while since he's been on that side of town, and the last time ended on shaky terms with a few of the inhabitants. They know him there and not everyone likes him. Perhaps he ought to start keeping better company, or at least avoiding jobs for the people who'd just as soon kill him if he ever lost his uses. He's not a saint; he'll take any job for anyone who has the gold and wants to part with it in exchange for his unique skills. Sometimes that's put him on the wrong side of the law, sometimes on the wrong end of the moral spectrum. But he doesn't discriminate and he sleeps just fine at night, probably due to the fine sheets he's paid for with somebody's blood money. A clean conscience isn't worth its weight in this town. What's valuable is information, and that's what he offers. For a fee.


	2. SCENE TWO

**_EXCERPT FROM THE TRANSCRIPTS OF DRACO A. MALFOY, DECEMBER 18th, 2002_**

_C.P.T. has someone up for election now. New Reigners are furious. No one seems to know where they're getting the gold from. They've bought out half the Daily Prophet for ad space and the Reigners hands are tied. With economy going the way it is seems like no one asks questions anymore as long as someone hands them a voucher stamped for the month and doesn't murder anyone in public. They might actually gain votes if the victim was a tax man. No one in the Prophet will publish any connection between the C.P.T. and the Dynasty if they like their necks the way they are. The Ministry is still fumbling around, trying to figure out who on their payroll is actually working for them and who's feeding the Dynasty their information._

_Since Connell case wrapped it's been quiet. May be safe to start picking up some new clientele. No one in the Dynasty is going to make trouble as long as I keep finding their witnesses for them. There are enough old friends lying around in the ranks to warn me if I need to keep a low profile. Looks like they stopped trying to bring me in once they realized I was the one who fed the Ministry Connell. I didn't bother to mention his friends in the Alleys._

_Pansy says she knows who the new faces are for the C.P.T. but she didn't share. Probably the same slick bastards hanging around the Club on Friday nights. I told her maybe she'll be the future Prime Minister's girl and she said she hates business suits and cheap brandy. She put a goddamn Christmas tree in the living room last night. It takes up all the space but I can't be bothered to take it out. The extra light is useful. I'd have made her take it with her but she was already gone by the time I woke up. Predictable Pansy._

* * *

It's the heart of Knockturn alley, set in the darker, quieter street behind Diagon Alley, where the late-night revelers rarely venture. The businesses here cater to a different social group: the powerful few and the many that surround them, some looking for a little shared glory or gold, others with their own agendas, none of them without an ulterior motive or two. It's the center of the Alleys, the heart of the London district where the Dynasty is law and the Ministry has no authority. It's a dangerous place to be, the very valley of death, but for those who know how to play the game, it can be the land of milk and honey. And Draco knows how to play, he's a natural, raised in the cradle of power and discretion even before the Splintering spread the seeds for the lush jungle here.

He's familiar with the place, though he can't be called a regular. And the place is familiar with him. He doesn't bother with the approach he took in Diagon Alley; nothing that simple will work here. He's not an insider, but he knows a few and he can fake it enough to make his way around. He heads directly for the largest building, a grand looking place with light glowing from the beveled glass at the top of the double doors. As he steps under the awning, the muscle in front looks up, a glowing cigarette in his hand.

"You like to play some risky tricks, friend," says Joel Davis, shaking the ash off the end of his smoke.

"Old habits," Draco acknowledges. Joel witnessed the last time Draco came around, as well as his somewhat hasty departure. Draco remembers him from school, he was a few years below his year. "How's your sister?"

"Ask her yourself," Joel suggests, nodding to the door. "She's inside."

Draco nods and opens the door. He's immediately greeted by warm air and a soft babble coming from the room at the bottom of the sweeping staircase before him. Sultry jazz drifts up from a piano which plays itself in the corner. This is not the same wild night out occurring just a few streets away. This is something much more sinister. The girl at the top of the stairs takes his coat, but he slips his wand out of it and into his pocket first. He descends the stairs without drawing attention to himself; the room is large and crowded, smoke drifting over the heads of the occupants who stand around in small groups or sit at tables or bars, drinks in hand. A few couples drift smoothly across the dance floor at the other end of the room. Everyone wears fine suits and satin dresses, accessorized with fur stoles and diamonds and silk pocket squares. It's a wealthy, sophisticated crowd of criminals and Draco fits right in. He crosses the room to the bar and orders a whiskey from the bartender who pours with a style no one working on Diagon Alley could hope to master, all the while exchanging smooth patter with two women sitting at the end.

Draco spots a few familiar faces. Some from school, others who used to drift in and out of the Manor during the War, almost unrecognizable dressed up, without the black robes of Death Eaters. Some he's seen in the papers: here the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, there the owner of a winning Quidditch team. Standing in a corner smoking a cigar with a small knot of men, a petite blond on his arm, is a celebrated member of the Wizengamot. Reporters and politicians, Aurors and businessmen, they all mingle here with confidence, protected by the elite society they serve.

But they're not who Draco came to speak to. In fact, the famous and wealthy men are not the stars of the room, not the centers of attention. That honor is reserved for the women. They're the beautiful and dangerous mistresses of Knockturn Alley, the elite group known affectionately as the Alley Cats, though one would do well not to call them that to their faces. Their job is almost entirely to entertain the clients and friends of the Dynasty bosses, but this is not a collection of pretty faces and they serve their masters well. They know more than they'll ever reveal and they're queens of manipulation, witches with a hundred secret motives and faces that would melt the devil's sulfurous heart with an innocent pout.

It's an exclusive group and there's no easy way in. But if Rose had high ambitions and a connection in the Dynasty, this might be where she envisioned herself. The Dynasty is almost entirely a gentleman's club, with a few exceptions.

But he doesn't have to fight his way into their circles, as Rose would have. He already has an in. He stops a cocktail waitress on her way past, her tray empty. She turns a smile on him and when she speaks her voice is gentle and appealing.

"What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for someone," he says, scanning the room with his eyes over her shoulder.

"We're all looking for someone," she replies with a soft laugh.

"Is Pansy here tonight?"

Her eyes widen and her laughter grows for a second. Then she shakes her head. "So you're one of ithose/i," she observes. "I wouldn't have pegged you. Turn around, Cassanova, and good luck to you."

His eyes have already left her when she walks away and she's not surprised. He turns to the other side of the room, over his left shoulder, and he wonders how he missed her before. She's facing him but her head is tilted away; she's speaking to someone beside her and the one listening watches her like a dying man receiving his last rites and an exclusive invite to absolution. She's dressed in something elegant and black and the smooth curve of the fabric over her skin hides a tongue sharper than Salazar's sword.

He waits for her to see him and after a minute or so she does, and with a wordless glance of dark eyes she let's him know he's been acknowledged. But it's a few minutes before she excuses herself from her company and she crosses the room slowly, stopped every now and then by another patron. She knows he's watching and she likes to keep him waiting. He stands up and stakes a claim in a quiet spot near a fireplace, away from most of the crowd, and watches her approach, amusement shading his face.

The smile she gives him when she reaches his side is both alluring and impenetrable. She's not the most beautiful woman in the room, not quite: her forehead is a little large and her eyes a little small, her nose a little snubbed, her top lip overshadowed by her lower. But somehow she wears her imperfections like a silk gown and the dangerous wit and smooth melody of her words are what draws a man in like a moth to a candle. He thinks it must be similar to the appeal of extreme sports but he wouldn't know, he's never been a giant chaser.

"I didn't think you played with these toys anymore," she says softly, glancing around at the nearby company.

"I guess I'm still a child at heart," he shrugs. It's been months since he last saw her but the gap is typical and will go unacknowledged. She doesn't accept sentimentality and he doesn't offer it. "How's the crowd?"

"It never changes. Would you like me to introduce you?" Her voice drops slightly and the bright glimmer in her eye turns wicked. "I've got a friend in the league who could get you free Quidditch tickets."

He laughs at that, because she knows she can't play him and she never stops trying. "Darling, someday you're going to wake up with somebody's hands around that pretty neck," he warns her. She only smiles.

"Will you miss me?"

"Like smoke misses fire," he assures her flatly, raising his glass slightly to her. "But that will pass."

"What brings you down to the Club, looking like a tortured soul in good robes? I'm afraid the only salvation we offer here is in liquid form."

"I don't think it's the drinks that bring the suits, with respect to the fine work of the barman," he suggests. She tilts her head a little to the side in shy, sweet agreement and the innocent glance is almost believable. "But I have business here. I'm looking for my lost kitten, have you seen her?" He passes the photo of Rose Zeller to her and she glances down at it for half a second.

"And here I was thinking you just came to see me," she says with a little sigh. She gives him a glance through long, black eyelashes and her fingertips softly touch the skin of his forearm. Her smile is devious. She's putting on a show for him for her own amusement and she doesn't care that he isn't fooled. He waits for her. There's no forcing Pansy into a conversation she doesn't want to have. After he's remained still and silent for a full minute she loses interest and looks down at the photo with cool indifference.

"She's a sweet little kitty. I only play with big cats," she dismisses, handing him back the photo.

"Who do you know who might have taken an interest?" he asks, stowing the picture back in his pocket and eyeing her closely.

"We don't do a lot of charity work around here," she points out, her tiny sneer regally disdainful. "But once in a while we get benefactors who like their company a little more innocent. Lana Diver handles that sort of thing, it's not my area of expertise," she admits, and at this he laughs again, and she raises an eyebrow at him.

"If there's ever been an innocent freckle on you, Pansy, it was gone by the time you learned to speak."

"You should know, you've seen them all," she shoots back, and just like that the amusement is back on her face. Conversation with Pansy is less of a foxtrot and more of a quickstep performed on a knife's edge, and she'd have a man's heart breaking for her even as she pushed him down on the blade. It would be a waste of time for the poor soul, of course. Pansy doesn't love men with hearts to break.

"I suppose you're not as memorable as you think," he lies and is rewarded with a cold answering look.

"I'd slap you if I didn't think you'd enjoy it."

"A man's got to get his kicks somehow." He drains his glass and sets it down on the tray of a passing cocktail waitress before he turns back to her. "Keep an ear out, would you? I'm going to go see if I can swim with the big fishes."

"Watch out for bait," she responds with a parting glance, and heads back the way she came, her long hair swaying gently across her back. He watches her go before he grabs another drink from the bar and begins moving through the room, picking up snatches of conversation, making a point of not lingering anywhere too long. He's looking out for the one Pansy mentioned, Lana, and keeping a low profile. But he learns nothing of immediate interest and so he changes tactics, sitting down at a table and waiting to see who emerges from the woods.

"So, have you finally decided to claim your place in the land of plenty?" asks a familiar voice, and Draco turns to see Adrian Pucey sliding into the chair beside him. He's an old schoolmate and a past client who owes Draco a favor for helping him out of a tight spot involving gold he owed to someone more important than he, and he's been pushing Draco to use his connections to get in on the action ever since. His words are slightly slurred and he lounges in his chair with the air of a self-absorbed, bored teenager looking around for someone to entertain him.

"I'm open to the possibility," Draco hedges, and he's thinking quickly, calculating the best direction to take and how much he might be able to learn.

"I't's an golden opportunity," Pucey states, nodding his head decisively. "I'm telling you, Malfoy, there's no better place to be with the state the country's in. Look around you. Look at these people. The politics, the business, man. It's all happening in this room."

"I've heard business is doing well," Draco says cautiously, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye. He decides to take the jump and drops his voice lower. "Someone said there's a new angle on Harlow's end," he reveals conspiratorially. It's a risk but he doesn't think Pucey is in a state to be suspicious and he keeps his tone confident, as though he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"Who told you that?" Pucey asks urgently, and Draco wonders if he's gone too far, but it's too late to back out now.

"Kevin Whitby," he informs Pucey, watching him for signs of recognition. The other man gives a low whistle.

"Whitby? He's dirt, man. Worms. I can have you sleeping in the clouds. Besides, word is he's on the out with the management."

"What did he do, waltz with the wrong broad?"

"No, he tried to tango with Teddy, is my guess. As far as I know he's flown the coop."

Draco is about to ask him to elaborate but the man stands up and smooths his slicked hair back. "Excuse me," he says, and nods toward a woman who's beckoning him toward her with a smile. He's out of his seat faster than Draco can say a word and already crossing the room.

He should have known it wouldn't be easy. He's forgotten how many different pieces of the puzzle it takes to start to make a picture around here. All he's learned so far is that is Rose got in, she didn't get far. So he decides to try one more hand of cards and he has the barman point him in the direction of the mysterious Lana. She's a petite blonde, green-eyed, with a face like a china doll and a voice sweeter than Fizzing Whizbees. But she loves to play the silent game and Draco's got no read on her.

"What's your story, slick?" she asks him.

"I've got a girlfriend likes to make friends," he says to her. "She's cute like you. What do you do with the new girls?"

"Is your girlfriend here?" she asks him and steps a little closer, and her vanilla perfume is warm and inviting. For the love of Salazar, these women are going to drive him absolutely mad. It's like talking to a Sphinx who speaks sign language backwards.

"Sorry love, I'm a loyal kind of guy," he says, stepping back.

"That's sweet," she observes. "What's your girlfriend's name?"

"Daisy," the lie slips out easily.

"You know, I have Seer blood," she says, and he thinks he may have mental whiplash.

"Do you?" he asks exasperatedly.

"Yes. Do you want me to read your palm?" She picks up his hand without waiting for a reply and turns it over. Her hands are warm and soft and she traces the lines on his palm with a feather-light touch. "You're a dangerous man, Draco Malfoy," she says without looking up, and he stiffens slightly, but he supposes he's known enough here that she could have learned his name. "You have more than a few enemies. But a few friends, as well. And that girlfriend of yours- what was her name? Rose?"

He pulls his hand away sharply and she's looking at him with a delighted expression.

"How do you know that?"

She laughs, a tinkling bell. "You need to relax, slick. Pansy told me."

Pansy. Of course. This would be her idea of a twisted joke. Lana's stopped laughing and now she eyes him haughtily, sizing him up.

"Alright, let's say I knew her. What's it to you?"

"I'm a friend of her parents," Draco says, deciding on giving her most of the truth. He won't take a chance on trying to pull one over on her- if she's anything like Pansy she'll decide whether to help him or not purely on a whim and the truth might earn him favors. She pauses.

"Rosie was just playing dress up. The lifestyle wasn't good for her," the woman says to him flatly. She leans against the wall behind her like a thoughtful schoolgirl, looking up at him to watch for his reaction.

"When did you send her off?"

"I didn't," the woman says, shrugging. "She quit the scene on her own, as far as I know. One night she just up and disappears. Guess she didn't go home to mummy and daddy."

"What about the boyfriend?"

"Don't know him," she says sweetly. Draco is unsatisfied and she can read it in his face. "Hey, cowboy, I helped you out because you're a friend of a friend. Don't huff and puff at me. This little piggie has business to take care of."

She gives him a tiny waggle of her fingers and sashays away. Draco surveys the room for a moment and then heads across it to the stairs to get his coat. He's done all he can for one night. At the top of the stairs he looks down and sees Pansy, leaning against a doorway behind the bar. She's looking up at him, her eyes partially in shadow beneath a wisp of dark brown hair. She gives him a glimmer of a smile, looking mischievously entertained. She's dangerously alluring and well aware of it. She'll turn on him in a second if the idea amuses her. He's known her since he was a kid and he doesn't trust her for a moment. He considers the possibility that he might be wildly in love with her. It seems likely. But he prefers to remain optimistic and think that perhaps he simply hates her so much he can't get it out of his mind. He wouldn't be surprised if he can't tell the difference.


	3. SCENE THREE

**_EXCERPT FROM THE TRANSCRIPTS OF DRACO A. MALFOY, August 13, 2002_**

_Connell case wrapped last night. I found him holed up in a hotel in the South, still stuffing gold in his pockets when I came through the door. You'd think, with the might of the Dynasty after him, that a man might rethink his priorities, and save his own skin rather than the money, but I suppose if he's stupid enough to go running off with Dynasty gold you can't expect much. His friends at the Club aren't happy with me, they know I dropped names to the bosses. It may be time to keep away from Knockturn Alley for a while._

_The rest of the world is going to hell, as usual. After the fiasco of the last election there's a lot of talk about the new party. They call themselves the Campaign for Preservation of Tradition, which would be amusing if they weren't entirely serious. Some people suspect Dynasty backers. I don't suspect, I think it's pretty damned obvious, really. But they're not afraid to show their pretty faces in public anymore, not with the Ministry in the shambles it is. Whoever's leading the charge on the Ministry is playing it smart this time. I guess the boys have grown up from the days of public assassination and thievery._

* * *

Rose's trail is cold. She wasn't in deep enough or long enough to make much of an impression. But Kevin clashed swords with somebody and there's a good chance someone knows where he is and how he got there. And Draco has a feeling that Rose would have followed him. She seems like the loyal type. Something about her photograph makes him think of Pansy. It's a stupid thought: Pansy was never that naive and never that innocent. But she had the same vibrant energy, the same ambition. But Rose attached herself to the wrong man and now she has someone like Draco looking for her, which is never a sign that your life is on the right track.

He knows if he finds Kevin it will lead him to Rose. But finding Kevin is proving tricky enough. Someone knows where he is but that someone doesn't feel like sharing. Draco needs a loose thread to pull before he can unravel the whole thing. So he goes hunting. Kevin lives in a dodgy neighborhood. The kind of neighborhood where your neighbor would just as soon curse you as lend you a cup of sugar. The kind of neighborhood where despair lay as thick on the ground as midwinter snow blackened by villainous boots. The kind of neighborhood where a landlord will look the other way while you magic open a door, if your bribe is generous.

Kevin Whitby's flat is dirty and cluttered. Every surface is occupied by discarded papers, dirty dishes, or junk. Draco steps inside gingerly and closes the door behind him, leaving him to navigate the room by the light from the streetlamps outside. He won't risk lighting a lamp and alerting anyone who might be watching. But he has to move slowly, stepping around the crowded floor space, keeping his eyes open for anything relevant. He checks the desk first. Not much here; a few old scraps of parchment, an empty ink bottle, and some letters with an official looking heading. He picks them up and reads them in the dim light. They're from the London University of Magical Occupational Studies. Kevin Whitby as a schoolboy doesn't fit the bill Draco's been writing for him in his head, but the letter clears things up. He's on academic probation for abysmal attendance. So why pay the hefty bills for a LUMOS education if you don't go to class?

IIt's just one more thing in a long list of numbers that don't add up to much at the moment. He'll see what he can make of it later. In the meantime, he tries the kitchen, but is driven back by the smell almost immediately and heads instead to the bedroom.

It isn't any neater here than the rest of the place but it is much colder. The window is open and there's a pile of post on the sill that flutters dangerously in the wind. Draco darts across the room and picks it up before it can blow away. It's damp on one side, the parchment stiff and cold. This post hasn't been touched since it was delivered, sometime during the rain. And the kitchen smells like rotting food. Kevin hasn't been home for days at least.

It's not the worst crime he's ever committed in the course of business and so he doesn't feel any twinge of discomfort as his tears the first envelope on the bottom of the stack open and pulls out the parchment inside. The letter is really little more than a note, written in untidy, blotched handwriting:

_Wit,_

_Where are you? The boys won't wait much longer. Three days, man._

It was unsigned. He turned to the next. On the page were written a strange series of numbers and symbols:

_18.5.267-04/30_

He had no idea what to make of it but he slipped it into his pocket for future reference. The last letter was not much longer than the first.

_Wit,_

_You're late. I couldn't keep them off any longer. Low's out for blood. Keep your neck clean._

It isn't threatening. It's short but not sweet. And it's in the same handwriting as the first. Someone was looking out for Whitby, or trying to, but perhaps as much for their own skin as his. Other than that, the flat looks clean. There's a picture of Rose and Kevin together sitting on the coffee table. It's one of the few things in the apartment that isn't dusty or stained but that means very little; maybe it was moved recently. They look happy, young, and he's struck once again by how very out of place they are mixed up in this business. How did they get in so deep? Kevin is a dimwit and Rose an innocent and whoever was pretending otherwise had something to gain for it.

So Whitby had a real friend, somewhere. But where? If he really was enrolled at LUMOS, it's a good place to start. He may not go to class anymore but maybe someone remembers him from before he disappeared and knows why. Draco has had about enough of this place anyway. He has a feeling things will get messy enough soon without lingering here any longer.

* * *

The building isn't impressive from the outside; it's disguised as an empty warehouse on a clean but quiet street. But the inside of the University is grand and impressive, with all of the elegance that marks it as a building with ancient magical legacy. The hall is high ceilinged and wide, and his footsteps echo as he crosses it. It's quiet. He's young enough to look like he could be a student but he can't quite erase the sharpness in his gaze, nor the direct and dark confidence that marks him as something else. He never actually attended the school, though for much of his life it had been part of his intended future. Things didn't go exactly as planned. He knows Pansy went for a year or so, until she dropped out to pursue her fortune elsewhere.

He gets past the woman sitting at the reception desk without so much as a second glance. Her nametag reads Wendy, and he makes a note of it. He's looking for some kind of Admissions office, or a room of records, anything that might tell him what kinds of groups Whitby was involved in or who he knew. He has to go down a few halls to find it but eventually he does, a fair sized room with a large plaque reading "Admissions Records".

It's the kind of place where they're likely to have security of some kind but he doesn't hesitate when he opens the door. He learned a long time ago that there's very little a good bluff can't get through, especially with some luck, charm, and gold. Luck is finicky, charm he can fake, and gold he can get when he needs to. And he's always had an eye for people, for what makes their blood boil and what makes them fold like pages of a book in a stiff wind. It's what kept him alive when he had little else of value to offer in the Dark Lord's army and it serves his purposes now.

He steps into the room with confidence. The space is cut in half by a long countertop, behind which a witch sits flicking her wand lazily at a pile of papers which obediently shuffle themselves, and a wizard sits with his quill moving over a very long piece of parchment, looking weary. Behind them are several identical doors leading to what Draco presumes are file rooms, and a short corridor that disappears around the corner. He makes his way past the two behind the desk without looking at them, striding forward purposefully, and he dares to think it might actually be that easy when the woman looks up.

"Excuse me? Sir?" she halts him, and he turns around, fixing a pleasant look on his face.

"Oh, sorry, ma'am. I'm the new file clerk, Wendy just sent me up for training in the back."

She looks confused but not suspicious and sits down without another word. It's strange to him how easily people trust, how quickly they can be convinced of one's honesty with a few words or a meaningless show of emotion. There are too many people who would have plenty to gain by his destruction for him to be so cavalier about his confidences. But the woman at the desk has nothing to fear from him, after all. He's only after one thing, and as soon as her back is turned, he slips into the filing room to look for it.

The drawers are labeled alphabetically. He finds one marked with a 'W' and slides it open quietly. It's almost comical how helpful the labeling is, and he finds Whitby's papers within a minute. He studies the information. Whitby began as a mediocre student and only got worse as time went on. His grades slipped dramatically at a turning point around two months ago. Something happened that distracted him from his studies. There's no mention of any clubs or teams he's joined, nothing that indicates he was particularly close to anyone. Useless. But there, at the bottom of the page, something curious. It doesn't make sense, but the information is clear. Strange.

With a decisive movement, Draco shoves the papers back into the drawer and shuts it again. He retraces his steps, back out past the two behind the desk, back into the hallway and back a few turns, to the signpost that points him in the right direction. Another few turns, up a flight of stairs, and across to a hallway that is divided in two. He's looking for 301. He turns right accordingly and passes rows of identical doors, each neatly numbered. Student dormitories. Some are decorated with posters or messages pinned there by friendly visitors. He walks past a group of students who don't look at him, distracted by the young man in the center showing off something in his notebook. A little further on, a young woman sits in front of her doorway silently, her eyes wide and staring at nothing, but no one pays any attention to her and Draco walks past her without pausing.

Room 301. The dormitory registered to Kevin Whitby, who rents a flat in the slums and doesn't attend classes. Clearly he doesn't need it for living in, so what does he do with it? From what Draco saw of his apartment he's far from wealthy. Chances are he has a roommate. Draco knocks.

The door opens a crack after a long pause and a young man with a blank expression puts his face in the gap.

"Kevin Whitby?" Draco asks, though he doesn't think so.

"Wit isn't here," the young man replies slowly, as though he barely understood the question. He looks Draco over. "You should have a Visitor's pass."

"Forgot to bring it," Draco says. "Have you seen Whitby around?"

"Are you... a client, or something?"

He has no idea what it means but he'll take his chances. It might get him somewhere in this dimwit's mind. "Yes. Where is he?"

Instantly the other man's demeanor changes: he's suddenly wide eyed, respectful, though still slow. "Oh, er, Kevin isn't available. All of his business is being handled by... er, hang on, I have a card."

He pats his pockets and comes up with a grimy business card, the edges dulled. Draco slips it in his pocket. "What happened to Kevin?" he asks again.

This time, the man's eyes shift. He looks nervous, edgy, as though he's trying to think fast through his own thickness. "Don't know," he says unhelpfully. "He just disappeared. Look, I have to go, alright? Check the card." He's already closing the door, backing away out of sight, into the gloomy room. Draco's standing in front of a closed door.

He was lying, and he wasn't very good at it. Draco's seen a lot of liars in his business, and he is one himself, a good one, when he needs to be. But it's harder to tell what exactly he was lying about. He knows something about where Whitby is, but whether or not he himself was involved in Whitby's disappearance is questionable. He doesn't seem to have the grey matter required for an operation like that. But he used the nickname 'Wit', the same as on the notes in Whitby's apartment. He might have sent them. But if he did, his supply of loyalty had run short as soon as a meaner face had showed up wanting to take over Whitby's corner.

A sneer of disgust crosses his face. He has no sympathy for this sniveling excuse for a youth. He hasn't got much moral ground to stand on, as far as judgment goes. He operates according to what serves him best and he doesn't risk his own neck or his money bag for any ethical dilemma. But there are a few wands he just doesn't wave and betrayal is one of them. The man who signs his checks is the man he works for and there's nothing else to it. It doesn't matter what he thinks of the man, whether he's a saint or Lucifer himself (and that's a private joke, clever if not particularly amusing). It sounds like Whitby's friends felt otherwise and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. And they're probably guilty of another thing he can't stand: carelessness. He's lived his whole life walking on thin ice and he's seen plenty of men fall in. You learn to be careful when you rub shoulders with the kind of people who wouldn't shed a tear at your funeral unless they were well paid for it.

And of course, he doesn't tolerate disrespectful conduct in front of witches. That one his mother taught him. She's a fine woman.

* * *

The address on the business card is a puzzle. It appears to lead to a blank wall. But Draco's nothing if not persistent and so he takes out his wand and begins to surreptitiously tap the wall, feeling it with his fingers, as the first drops of rain begin to fall from the darkening sky onto the back of his neck. It takes a minute or so, but there- a think line of light appears where his wand touches the stone. He touches it again and traces the line this time, drawing the outline of a door which glows for a second before appearing in the wall.

There's light behind the door but no noise. No telling what might be inside. It's risky, but he's used to it. He turns the knob.

Inside it what appears to be a kind of workshop. He's standing at the end of a short corridor which leads to the larger room. It's clean and warm inside and as soon as he steps into the room he can tell he's alone. There's no sign of the man who supposedly operates here, whose card reads Thomas Coal and gives no indication of his occupation. On one side of the room sits a large pile of crates, on the other, a solid wooden table bearing a wireless and some tools, and a few rolls of parchment. Draco looks around for a moment, double checking that no one waits in hiding. The lamps are lit, but no sixth sense tells him that he's being watched.

He crosses the room to the crates first. They're neatly stacked, and one is left helpfully open. He peers inside. It's filled with unmarked, small boxes. He picks one up and tugs the top open. Inside rests a small quantity of iridescent powder, shimmering in the light of the lamps. It looks like some kind of potion ingredient, maybe. Whatever it is he's not tasting it.

He puts the box back and crosses to the other side of the room, where he picks up one of the rolls of parchment. It's filled with names, as well as several columns with a series of numbers and symbols similar to the one he found in the note in Whitby's flat. He jots down a few of the names on a scrap of parchment and shoves it in his pocket for later reference. It seems like every time he follows a lead, he comes up with ten new questions. It's not a good sign. He's beginning to feel like he should hurry.

He's just considering waiting there to see whether Coal shows his face when he spots something under the table. It's some kind of string, leading behind. He kneels down and picks it up. It's something familiar but he can't place it. He follows it around the table to it's source and then he stands, his hands in his pockets, his eyes cast down onto where the string attaches to the trainers on the feet of the dead man on the floor.


	4. SCENE FOUR

SCENE FOUR

Dead men tell no tales, and angels tell lies.

**_EXCERPT FROM THE TRANSCRIPTS OF DRACO A. MALFOY, April 21st, 2002_**

_Big news from the Prophet today, for once. Local elections were disrupted by a handful of riots in the evening. Started out as a few protests, some arguments back and forth, general disruption, but spread pretty quickly. From the pictures in the papers it looks bad. All of London was in Diagon Alley, it seems, screaming at one another, breaking windows, and then some rumor spread that there were men in masks coming down the street and of course people panicked, trampled all over one another trying to get out._

_The strange thing is that no one can figure out what started it, or where the rumor came from. Some people are starting to say it was orchestrated. It makes sense, the Dynasty would love to disrupt elections, but that's a bold move. If it was them, they're celebrating in Knockturn Alley now: the Ministry is in a complete shambles trying to clean up, arrest anyone they can, and everyone in the city is screaming about compensation and a stronger Auror force. Waste of time, if you ask me. If they knew how many Aurors spend their time in the Club drinking brandy with the Alley girls or playing cards, they might say something different. I may drop by to have a look around myself tomorrow night, for curiousity's sake. I have a few things to look into for a new client anyway. And I told Pansy a month ago I owed her a drink, if she doesn't get to collect soon she might get bored and send some other poor schmuck to drag it out of me._

* * *

The man lying on the ground is young, four or five years younger than Draco himself. In death, he carries no burdens, but something about his face suggests that even in life he was little more than a kid, doing his very best to act hard in a hard world. Draco can't be sure, but he'd bet a handsome amount that he's found Kevin Whitby.

Another man might be moved by the sight, might be angered at the loss of young and promising life. Draco stands with his hands in his pockets and a blank expression. He's no stranger to death, death and he have been respectful aquaintances since one night when Draco was sixteen and somebody burned a mark into his arm. And he has no illusions of grand tragedy. A young man is dead here and hardly anyone will notice. Maybe his parents, his close friends, but the world will not miss the man Kevin Whitby will never grow up to be. It's the anonymity of it, the sheer pointlessness of it that bothers Draco, bothers the hell out of him. But he's got a job to do and no room now for sentimental mistakes.

He crouches beside the body. It's cold and stiff. Whitby didn't die in the past few hours, he's been gone for a day at least, if not two. No sign that he died of anything messy, but Draco didn't think there would be. The Dynasty likes to keep their hands clean. But he's laying at an awkward angle, one arm half bent under his torso, his feet tucked beneath the table. It's a strange way for someone to fall. And the thin layer of dust on the floor around him looks smudged, disturbed. Whitby didn't die here. He was placed here by someone, levitated, probably, on purpose.

So what does that mean? Who dumps a body in their own workshop and then leaves, without turning out the lights? It doesn't make sense, unless someone else put the body here and left it for Coal to find. It would explain the lights, the positioning of the body behind the table. Someone wanted to scare the daylights out of Coal, but why? And who was it?

It's distasteful but it has to be done. He gingerly searches the dead man's pockets, trying to touch him as little as possible. He tugs on a sleeve and the body moves slightly. It reminds Draco of the way they used to twitch on the ground when he stood over them with his wand outstretched, pushing the curse out, trying not to vomit. But he doesn't have time to think of that now. Most of the time, he's able to push thoughts of the war away, but sometimes they intrude, slithering back in like a snake around locked doors. Now he concentrates, staring at a patch of dusty concrete until his mind is clear, as his Aunt Bellatrix taught him a long time ago.

There's a dead man on this floor and somebody knows why. He won't be alone for long, not if they wanted Coal to find the body. Whitby's pockets are full of junk: a few coins, a spare quill. There's a small fold of parchment in his pocket. Draco unfolds it. It looks like a stack of scraps, things he jotted down, a few names and numbers in that same familiar but still meaningless arrangement. Draco slips the stack into his pocket and stands up. Coal hasn't found the body yet, of that he's sure. A man doesn't find a body in his workshop and leave it sitting there. No, this little surprise is still waiting. But once he sees the dead man Coal's sure to clam. Nothing more efficient at sealing a man's mouth than a corpse on the ground.

No, Draco has his own ideas. As long as Coal doesn't know Whitby is dead Draco has one up on him and he intends to keep it that way. He waves his wand over the body, and it begins to rise, floating into the air like a sick marionette puppet. Draco lowers Whitby into a crate and with another flick of his wand he seals it. There's nothing else to be learned here. He turns and walks back to the door, his macabre luggage floating along behind him. He waves his wand and the crate vanishes. He'll keep it in his office until he finds something else to do with it. In the meantime, he'll follow it there. He has thinking to do on this one and he's seen quite enough for the day.

* * *

He apparates to the outside of the building and ducks inside quickly to avoid the rain that's pouring down in fat, heavy drops like righteous tears from the sky. He stops on the ground floor to check the mail. Nothing, nothing, and a card from his mother. The world could be splitting beneath her feet and she'd still be sending thank you notes and planning dinner parties. She still behaves with all of the regal dignity and discipline that she did when she ruled over Malfoy Manor.

He takes the stairs up the the fifth floor where his flat and office await, accessed through the same tiny hall. When he steps out of the stairs, coat already half off, he finds another surprise waiting and can't decide if it's good news or not.

"Hello, angel," he says to her, as she stands up from the bench where she sat waiting. She smiles: he's pleased her with the sarcastic nickname that he gave her years ago. Her coat is still rain-speckled so she hasn't been waiting long. He steps forward to the door and unlocks it. Once in a while, when he's annoyed with her, he'll bring her into his office and make her sit with a desk between the two of them until she learns to play nicely. Now though he lets her into the flat, locking the door behind him. She hasn't raised his temper yet and besides, it's a bad idea to let Pansy catch you with a corpse in your office.

She follows behind him and when he pauses to take off his coat properly she slides it from his shoulders for him and hangs it up on the coatrack behind her as though she's welcoming him into her own home.

"I'll light a fire," he offers when she takes off her own coat and reveals the thin red fabric she's wearing beneath. She's shivering already; his walls are thin and the cold outside creeps in like they weren't there.

"I guess I didn't dress for the weather," she admits, tilting her head and looking down modestly.

He laughs. "Yes, you're delicate," he says dryly. "If that storm were colder than you we'd all have frozen in our beds."

She smiles again, with a little twist of her head as though agreeing with him, and sits down on the sofa. It's one of the few pieces of furniture in the sparse room. He doesn't have much interest in interior decorating and the flat is small enough without elaborate furniture. There are few personal effects, just a picture on the table in a plain frame of his mother and father on their wedding day. He doesn't keep very many mementos and leaving them scattered about the place makes him feel cluttered.

He lights the fire and fixes them both a drink. He knows what she likes. She hates the taste of alcohol but she drinks it because, as she once said, _"a little burn feels good, every once in a while."_

"Did you find your lost pet?" she asks when he's sat down. She has her legs curled beneath her and her shoes sitting carelessly on the floor. He's forgotten how different it is to have her here, rather than seeing her in full costume at the Club. She's still full of more twists than a Gringott's cart but she's comfortable here, not quite so sharp. It's this Pansy that he sees a little in Rose's picture, the Pansy that might have turned out a little more innocent if things had gone a little differently. On the three occasions where she's told him, once casually, once resentfully and once playfully, that she loves him, it's always been this Pansy who said the words.

"Not yet," he replies, shrugging. "It's starting to seem like I ought to be looking fast, though."

"Poor girl," she says, and it sounds as though she might be sincere. He supposes she can afford to be generous.

"I don't suppose you've come with any useful information," he points out, raising an eyebrow at her. Any time he looks at her his gaze falls somewhere else, not because he's avoiding her eyes but because he tries to read her like a map: here a slender wrist holds onto the too-large glass he's handed her.

"Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact," she says, and now he's paying attention. "But maybe I'll keep it to myself. Don't rush into business, darling, I'll think you're in a hurry to be rid of me," she evades, and something's not quite right about her hurt expression. Sure, it's silly as ever, but she seems to be trying too hard.

"Maybe I am," he says, taking a drink. "God knows I'm tired and I've had enough riddles for one day." He makes to stand up, but she catches his hand and stays him, though she must know it's a bluff.

"Alright," she says, pulling him back down. He sits once more, facing her with an expectant frown. "Yes, I've got words for you about your little business. Whitby's back," she says matter-of-factly.

Draco's thrown by the statement. He knows Whitby's not back, in fact, Whitby's closer than she could possibly know. So why does she want him to think that he is? She's got some ace in her sleeve and he won't get to see it until he gets to the end of her puzzle so he plays along, leaning back into the arm of the sofa. She's got a hidden motivation and he doesn't trust it.

"Really? Well how about that. I suppose I'll just have to stop by the Club tomorrow and have words with him," he says, quirking his eyebrow at her.

She's biting her lip and it's brilliant, reluctant and charming, hypnotizing like a snake handler's song but he knows he's the snake in this story and he isn't going to buy what she's selling. "You could let me do it," she suggests, tilting her head at him. "Why would he talk to you? He doesn't know you from Adam."

"Oh, and you think you can play Eve, do you?" he says with a slight laugh. He sits up and leans forward, observing her closely with his hands on his knees. "Now there's a problem with that idea and I'd have thought it was obvious. I can't let you talk to him because I don't trust you, as you well know, and for good reason. So why don't you tell me why you want me to stay away from the Club?"

She sets her drink down with emphasis and stands up, seeming restless, her hands twined together in front of her as she walks away from him. He stands up too, draining his drink, and leans against the back of the sofa while he watches her. Turning around, she seems to give up and comes back to him like a remorseful seraphim, perching on the arm of the sofa and waiting while he turns and stands in front of her, his hands in his pockets, waiting.

"Just this once, Draco. I know you don't trust me but will you listen to me? Stay out of it. I'll ask him anything you need, but don't come back, you'll only dig yourself in deeper," she suggests, and when he looks amused, she slides from the arm of the sofa and stands a few inches away from him, her hand touching the side of his neck warmly. "They'll be after you, Draco, they'll do anything to stop you from looking any further into this. Rose is fine. She doesn't need your help. But I do. Please, if you won't save your own skin, do it for mine."

Her eyes drop as though she's ashamed and she turns her head to the side, the picture of despair. In the light from the fire he can see what she's showing him: the dark shadow of a bruise beneath her left eye, tracing her cheekbone. He raises his hand and brushes it with his thumb, clearing away the fine powder of makeup that she's worn over it.

"And they did this to you, did they?" he asks, anger coloring his words with dark baritone. She nods silently, her eyes closed.

His hand moves from her cheek to her chin and he cups it, turning her face back to his forcefully, though he's careful not to hurt her. Her eyes open and she stares at him in surprise.

"Are you quite finished, angel? Is that the end of your sad little story, meant to make me angry and gather you up like a broken china doll and promise anything you ask? Well good, because I've got a story of my own for you. Kevin Whitby isn't back because Whitby is dead. I've just come from the workshop where I found his body. So I suppose if I agreed, you were going to go back to the Club and return with some wonderful happy ending to feed me, about how Rose is fine, she's gone skipping back to her parents like a good girl. So why don't you tell me why you really want me to back off, Pansy, because, while it was a nice touch, that little mark on you, if the bosses were laying hands on you you'd be a different color, or dead."

There's resentment burning in her eyes now, beneath the single swoop of dark brown hair that's fallen into her face. He releases her and she shakes it away, defiant.

"Alright, you're very clever," she says, pulling her wand from the bag she's left on the sofa and tracing the bruise on her cheek with the tip. It vanishes instantly.

"It wasn't your best work," he says bitingly. "Which makes me something's rattled you. So why don't you try the truth and see how far you get with that?"

Her face is still defiant but she's not ashamed, she simply hates getting caught. "Fine," she agrees, sitting back down on the arm of the sofa. There's something exhilarating about her anger and he watches her now because it's difficult to look away. "I meant what I said. They're on your back. Someone at the University tipped them off. You've really fallen into it on this one, Draco. There's a lot of people with a lot of money and that's a lot of incentive to make sure that you don't go digging up something you're not meant to."

"Oh yeah? And what's the operation that I'm not meant to dig up?"

"As though they'd tell me," she says, raising an eyebrow. "All I know is they know I know you and they sent me to try and discourage you from furthering your advances."

"There you go with that truth thing again," he says, crossing the room to her swiftly. "Now don't tell me you don't know because I'd be seriously surprised if there was anything you iweren't/i aware of that happens in that Club. Now maybe what you meant is they don't know you know and that's just fine with me but you're not doing yourself any favors, love."

She's silent for a minute, her blue eyes shining darkly like the moon on water, before she shakes her head. "I don't know any details," she says firmly. "All I know is they're running something out of the University. Some kind of recruitment but they're gathering gold on it too. That's why they've hired all of these fools from the bottom of the barrel."

"Anything to do with Leon 'Low? 'Blocks'?" he asks her, watching her closely.

"Yes, that's it," she says, leaning her head to the side with her eyes on him, so that her hair spills off of one shoulder and reveals a pale expanse of her neck. "Blocks. That's what they're selling to the students."

He remembers the strange substance, like potion ingredients, that he found at the workshop. Blocks- a term for the tiny boxes it was sold in. And the new craze among the students, the mind-addling drug that no one can trace. The blank stares. It all fits.

"So the Dynasty is pushing mind benders on the students, getting them addicted, recruiting them young," he says aloud as he works it out in his head. "It's a pretty good plan except that they're running two operations simultaneously. They want in on the Ministry, they have elections coming up. Can't risk anybody tying one of their cookie cuttter politicians to the deals. You're right, Pansy, this is a bit more than I was expecting," he admits, raising an eyebrow at her.

"So why don't you back off? You'll only get yourself in trouble. And Draco..." she says, then she hesitates, and this time it seems genuine. "They know we've been tied in the past. They're not feeling very generous toward me at the moment and they want me to reign you in. If you don't pull back it's falling on me."

He looks at her with all of her intoxicating darkness and he knows what she means and furthermore, if she gets pulled under because of this, it's his doing. He always knew they'd get him for something. Well, now he's dragged Pansy into it, and she's sitting pretty in the snake's den as long as he keeps digging. He puts a hand on her waist.

"You've really got a talent for hooking bad men, don't you?" he asks, and the corners of her lips twitch into a smile.

"That's why you love me, isn't it?" she asks, her eyes smoldering beneath her eyelashes.

"Who says I do?" he challenges, and he pulls her closer and she presses her lips to his, and he can taste the whiskey on them and it's sweeter than he's ever tasted it and more bitter than he could imagine. He pulls away and she's quiet, beautiful in her stillness.

"Let me worry about the bosses," he says, while her fingers press warmly into where his pulse beats in his neck. "You can tell them you spoke to me. Tell them I don't know anything, that I'm still looking for Kevin. You're already dancing on thin ice and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. Don't go back to your place. When you leave the Club let someone walk you until you've Apparated, someone you trust. You can stay in a hotel but don't tell anyone where. I'll try and keep you out of it but I can't make promises, alright?"

"I'm a big girl," she assures him, looking haughty. "I can walk the wire for a few days. And what are you going to do?"

"Rattle the cages and see what comes crawling out at me," he says, with a confident smirk.


	5. SCENE FIVE

SCENE FIVE

A tale of woe and romance.

**_EXCERPT FROM THE TRANSCRIPTS OF DRACO A. MALFOY, FEBRUARY 12th, 2002_**

_It's in the papers that Avery was taken in yesterday. I don't know what he did to the Dynasty to displease them enough to get him sent over but it must have been bad. Mother's worried that they'll want more gold now and I've no doubt she's right, but I don't see what exactly we're supposed to do about it. It's gold or Azkaban and gold looks like a fair price to pay no matter how much it is. Besides, it can't be more than what she spent trying to keep my father out and since the Dynasty's protection has proved more effective than the traditional route, it seems to me like we've upgraded._

_Oh, and they found McMillan. In an alley. No way of telling how long's he been there, with the snow he's probably frozen twice over. No marks on him but they wouldn't be bothered, he was just loud, not powerful. But of course, he was that way in school, from what I can remember. And he didn't have the sense of when to pipe down and keep his neck covered then either._

* * *

He wonders vaguely when she would slip out if he never went to sleep. Then again, he doesn't think she does it because she's ashamed of herself. She does it because it marks the line she can't cross, the line between occurrence and meaning. She's more wayward than a blossom floating on the April wind and that suits him just fine because he's always craved the taste of things he can't control. Another man might call him unhealthy and she sinister and another man would be right but then again, if she was healthy and sweet and loved him the way she should he'd have broken her heart or left her alone a long time ago. They're both two missteps away from Hell and dragging each other toward the edge and he doesn't think he would change things, if he could.

But there's another woman in his life now, one that he's never met and hopes he might get a chance to while she's still alive. Somebody out there has dumped her boyfriend's body in the workshop of Thomas Coal and Draco doesn't know who, but he bets Thomas has some ideas and he has a few thoughts on how to get the man to share.

* * *

He doesn't bother knocking. He strides into the workshop like Salazar Slytherin himself, hand on his wand but not nervous, looking assured, confident. It's a good way to rattle a man, they assume you have a reason to be cocky that they don't. Indeed, Thomas Coal, or someone sitting in his chair, looks up at the sound of the door banging shut and shakily drops his quill, his eyes darting over Draco's face. He's a thin, rather nervous looking man, with fussily neat hair and glasses, and he looks like he's used to being intimidated.

"Thomas Coal?"

"That's me," the man says with an obvious swallow, and Draco's almost surprised he doesn't stutter.

"Oh good," Draco says, sitting down opposite him without an invitation.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Thomas asks him, his eyes still darting between the door and Draco's wand.

"My name is unimportant unless you'd like to send me a Christmas card and frankly, I don't think you will," Draco replies with mocking cheer. "However, you could say I am a friend of Kevin Whitby's, and I am here to find out exactly what you know about his whereabouts and what he's doing."

"If they sent you then you already know I don't _know_ where Whitby is," Coal replies nervously, with an attempt at a confident look. Draco notices he does not seem surprised to hear the name.

"Oh, perhaps I've started with the wrong question," Draco muses aloud. "Why don't we start with how exactly Whitby came to be dead in your workshop?"

With a wordless noise of shock, Coal immediately begins looking around him, as though he's going to find a corpse he hadn't noticed before sitting in the chair beside him. "What? Dead? Where?" he says shakily, jumping to his feet. The act seems sincere. But Draco didn't really think he killed Whitby, anyway. Somebody either wanted someone else to think he did, or wanted Coal to think he's next.

"You're lying," Coal concludes, turning on Draco with a flustered stare. "What a thing to say to a man, Merlin. You guys have some real control issues."

Draco withdraws his wand and points it casually over his shoulder. With a deafening _BANG_!, the crate in which he stored Whitby's lifeless body appears and crashes to the floor of the workshop. The lid slides helpfully off, revealing a limp trainer. Coal gives a yell and backs up several feet, his back hitting the cabinets behind him.

"Oh, I'm not lying," Draco says, raising an eyebrow at the man. "Actually, I found him lying beneath this table yesterday, right about where your feet are now."

If he could lift his feet off of the ground, Draco is sure he would. As it is, he gives a frightened twitch. "You killed him," he says to Draco with wide eyes. "What are you going to do, kill me too? How am I supposed to make your bosses gold if you do that, huh? Sell from beyond the grave? What more do they want from me?" He's yelling now, frantic and frightened, and Draco waits until he silences himself, his eyes narrowed and his forehead slick behind his glasses.

"Calm yourself," Draco says flatly. "I'm not going to kill you. I don't work for the boys at the Club. I just need to know what happened to Kevin Whitby."

Coal laughs at that, though it's a weak, shaky noise. "And I'm supposed to believe that? Am I not moving fast enough, is that it? They want me to sell more well they'd better find a new market, students don't have unlimited income, you know. You show up here with Whitby's _corpse_ in a crate and I'm supposed to believe you don't work for them?

"Yeah, you are, Coal, because if I was one of the Dynasty boy's you'd be dead or in excruciating pain by now, considering the amount of information that keeps spilling from your trap. You ought to practice a little restraint if you plan on living much longer."

That quiets him down quickly enough, though his forehead is still shining with sweat. He sits down again, dropping into the chair like he's exhausted himself, wiping his brow with a clean hankerchief. "Alright, let's say I believe you," he says, though his expression says otherwise. "Why do you want to know about Whitby? Who are you working for?"

"Actually, I don't much care about Kevin Whitby," Draco admits, shrugging. He pulls Rose's picture from his pocket. "Who I'm really looking for is his little girlfriend. But her trail is cold and Kevin's is dragon fire so I thought I'd see what I could dig up that might lead me to her." He pushes the picture across the table.

Coal doesn't look at it. His eyes are wide again, but not frightened anymore, now he looks desperate. He doesn't even glance at the photo. "You're looking for Rose? Have you seen her? Who sent you? She didn't do anything, none of this is her fault!" he says, his words falling from his mouth in quick jumbles.

"Slow down, you'll give yourself an asthma attack," Draco says, raising an eyebrow. "Her parents hired me. I'm not going to hurt her. What I need to know is who knows where she is."

"I know where she is!" Coal bursts out, waving his arms. "They've taken her, they have her locked up! Because of me!"

"Alright, alright. First of all, that's not actually a where, that's a 'with who', although I'll take that too if you're offering. Second of all I can't do anything for her if I don't know what in the name of Merlin you're on about, so back up. Start at the beginning." He pulls out a roll of parchment and grabs the quill off of Coal's table to take notes. Coal looks eager to talk now, ready to spill information in a way that could get him killed if it were anyone but Draco sitting across from him.

"I used to work with Kevin. At the University. Well, he handled most of that. He was the seller. I just made the stuff, I was better at it. That's how I met Rose," he began, and into his face comes the kind of glow that only a woman can give a man, the kind of glow that usually makes a man act stupid. "Kevin, he was a lowlife. He was just dumb muscle. But Rose, she was sweet, perfect. She followed him around everywhere, did everything he asked. He was dragging into some really messy business. She was so much _smarter_ than that, so much better than this shit, but he always made her believe she was no good without him."

He looks bitter, shakes his head. Draco motions for him to continue. "I kept telling her to walk. You know, she didn't need this kind of thing. She could have been legit, really made it somewhere. One night she came running in here, dripping wet from the rain. She said Kevin was all hopped up on the stuff, acting crazy. Then he came bursting in after her, started saying all these things..." His voice is low and despairing. "Making accusations. About Rose and I. I thought he was going to kill me but he just said he was going to ruin me forever. Then he grabbed her and dragged her out. And I just sat here. I didn't even go after her, I was just a bloody coward, too afraid for myself." He's overwhelmed, drops his head into his hands in despair. Draco thinks he might be about to cry and he's alarmed by the idea. He never could handle tears. But when Coal's face emerges it's dry and pained.

"He did what he said. He started messing with the blocks, making them bad. No one wanted to buy anything from here anymore, it was making people sick. So somebody from the Dynasty came and started tossing me around, wanting to know why the blocks were bad. I told him I thought Kevin was doing it. The next thing I know, Kevin's disappeared and they drop a note on my door saying that I had better make up for the money they lost on him."

His eyes are hollow. "That's all I know," he says, and Draco believe him. Draco stands up, parchment in hand, and paces a short length of the workshop, thinking aloud.

"So you're sweet on Whitby's girlfriend and he knows it. He's spitting mad but not a killer so instead he goes after the business end, starts giving you a bad reputation with buyers. But he's not very smart. The Dynasty doesn't like that and they take him out of the picture for it. But now they've lost gold over it, a lot of gold. So they put the squeeze on you to make up the debt and to make sure you do they take a little leverage: Rose." Coal is nodding slowly, his expression almost blank with despair. "Cheer up," Draco suggests, his hands in his pockets. "They won't kill her as long as they need you."

"Is that supposed to make me feel _better_?" the other man asks incredulously, and Draco shrugs.

"It should, it's a better deal than Whitby got," he points out. "Now who was running the operation?"

"If I tell you that they'll kill me," Coal replies without conviction. Draco rounds on him sharply.

"If you don't tell me there's a good chance you'll never see Rose again. You already let her go once, do you want to take that risk again?" Perhaps he's being insensitive but empathy was never a strong suit of his anyway and the man needs a good shaking.

"Alright, alright!" Coal replies. "Look, I never knew who the top man was. Just who I reported to. It was Leon's men who came around. But there was a drop point, where they took large loads, sometimes."

He spouts the address and Draco jots it down on his parchment.

"One more thing," Draco says, his tone dark. "If they come asking don't pretend you haven't seen me. They won't buy it. Tell them I came looking for Kevin and you sent me to the school. They shouldn't bother you much," he adds, going for reassuring but arriving somewhere closer to indifferent.

"Fantastic," Coal replies sarcastically, at last looking like he's calmed down a bit, though still shaky. "Just do what you can for Rose. I'll take them of them on this end."

Draco thinks privately that Coal taking care of them would be a sight to see, but at least the man has confidence.

hr

The address belongs to a pub. It's an old building, the kind of establishment that outlasts wars and famines, the kind that will always be open as long as there's some poor old sap dragging his tired feet across the threshhold. The sign is faded and peeling and it's closed for the morning. Draco unlocks it and turns the knob, but it sticks. He turns it harder, a sharp twist of his wrist. It breaks off. He puts his shoulder to the door and pushes hard, then harder, and the wood around the frame splinters enough for him to get it open. He's made a bit of a mess.

Making a mental note to repair it on his way out, he steps over the threshold into the dark room. No one has coming running at the sound of him breaking their door into pieces and he supposes that they only operate at night anyway. Still, he keeps his wand held out and ready as he checks the corners of the room, peering into the darkness where the dim light from outside doesn't penetrate. There's nothing here. Just a few rickety tables, an old fireplace, incomplete without the equally dust regulars sitting around. There are two staircases in back: one leading to an upper room and the other below, behind a door, disappearing into the darkness of the cellar. If he were going to run large quantities of drugs out of a room, it would be this one. He chooses the cellar.

At the bottom of the stairs he lights his wand. There's another door here and another lock but this one is much newer, and opens easily once he unlocks it. It swings forward like a beckoning hand in the semi darkness and he follows. The cellar is large, too large for the room about it, and it's clean, but the floor is covered in boot prints and drag marks that show someone had been doing some heavy lifting. There are no crates here at the moment: perhaps they just cleaned out. But there's a table in the back covered in parchment and a few empty boxes scattered around. The air down here is frigid and dry, sharp. Something about the room puts him on edge. He crosses it a bit more hastily than he might have otherwise.

He begins to rifle through the papers but he's having trouble concentrating. It's dark outside the circle of light he holds in his hand and he keeps thinking he sees something move in the darkness, always just beyond his field of vision. It's the kind of foolish fear that everyone feels at one point but Draco can never quite shake it, it's always just behind him, breathing lightly on his neck. Maybe it's because he's never been the courageous type or maybe it's because he's seen nightmares become real. He has stood in the dark before and seen figures slither from the shadows and they didn't disappear, didn't melt into innocent shapes mistaken for something sinister. He's seen blood spilled and heard screams of the kind that worm inside a man and coil there, alive and slippery, and always they emerged from the darkness.

But he's got a job to do and time might be running out for the girl unfortunate enough to be counting on him and so he shakes his head and focuses, though he can feel cool sweat on his brow now. Usually he finds it easier to shake off the thoughts of the war, but sometimes they drag on him, hold onto his shoulders while he tries to walk forward with their bony hands digging into his skin.

Something catches his eye and he seizes on it like an offered hand. It's the same pattern repeated, but maybe because he's in a different state of mind or maybe because of the light, he sees it differently now.

_45.2.-04/12_

The last part looks to him like a date and the month being April it makes sense. Whatever the rest of it means he doesn't know precisely but he can guess it's the particulars of the shipment being made. That would be why the room is empty, then, they made a large shipment just a few days ago. But beneath the line of numbers is another piece of the puzzle and this one is a little more abstract:

_1 Spcl. To Ted. Extra for trouble._

1 Spcl. That could be one special, something separate from the usual order. And he's heard the name Ted before dropped at the club. But what kind of merchandise causes so much trouble that the operator wants to charge extra for it? Something unique, then, maybe hard to come by. Or maybe the thing itself was giving him trouble. In which case, the thing might be a person: Rose? Is this cryptic note a reference to a girl that came through here, shipped like a piece of meat? There's nothing else like the note on any of the papers, and he can see that as he goes further through the pile they get older and less relevant. But if she was here she had to leave a mark somewhere. A person doesn't pass through a room without any trace.

He casts his wand light into the corners, over and under the table, but he finds nothing. If she was here, where did they keep her? She must have been unconscious, there's no room they could have locked her into. So she'd be lying on the ground. He turns his gaze to the floor beneath his feet and walks, sweeping it with his eyes. There, near the table but not too near. A button. It's not much but it's something. It's decorated with a flower. Not something any of the Dynasty's muscle would be likely to wear. It's not proof that she was here, he could be wrong, but his instincts say differently. She was in this room, and recently. He's getting closer. Now he just has to see how close.


End file.
